


The Colour of Your Eyes

by itsalwaysyou_jw



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Bisexual John Watson, Canon Compliant, Confessions, Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, Grief/Mourning, Letters, Lost Love, Love Letters, M/M, One Shot, POV Sherlock Holmes, Post-Reichenbach, Reichenbach Feels, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-08-07 04:23:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16401254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsalwaysyou_jw/pseuds/itsalwaysyou_jw
Summary: When Sherlock returns, he fully expects John to be elated by his apparent resurrection. When the reunion doesn't go quite how he imagined, Sherlock returns to 221B Baker Street alone. Through his anguish, he notices a disrupted dust pattern around a loose floorboard in his bedroom.The floorboard lifts to reveal a box of letters written to Sherlock Holmes from a mourning John Watson. These letters, private and never meant to see the light of day, expose the depth of grief John experienced following Sherlock's death. John confides his innermost thoughts to a presumed-dead Sherlock on those pages, revealing more of himself than he ever has before.Now Sherlock must cope with the unveiled truth.





	The Colour of Your Eyes

It was supposed to be a magnificent reunion: John would scan right over him in apathy before snapping back to look into his eyes. It would be his eyes- he knew it would. For Sherlock’s body was different now, his face aged and hard, his skin lightly scarred and different in its colour. But John would know his eyes.

It played in his head like a movie: John would see him, would _truly_ see him. His eyes would fill with tears, they would embrace, and John would whisper in his ear: “I never gave up on you.”

During his years imagining it, the situation would change, the scene around them would change, and the exact dialogue would change. However, at the core, one thing remained true in all his imagined reunions: when John discovered the truth, he would be overjoyed at his return.

Two years he had spent dreaming of returning to John. Of course the others- Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, his parents- had crossed his mind. But the thought of them, the memory of their laughter, nor the imagined reunion hadn’t been what sustained his life for two years.

No, only the thought of John had done that.

The night Sherlock had just endured had been a proper disaster. He’d been overjoyed when John’s eyes had done exactly what he’d anticipated: slid over Sherlock initially before recognition passed over his face. Everything after…

Furious. Reserved. Aggressive. Engaged. John was all these things, though Sherlock had imagined none of it.

His heart was a stone in his chest. Sherlock could not bear to think about it.

The flat was empty in more ways than one. It was home, he should have been overwhelmed with joy and comfort to return to the location of the happiest moments of his life. Without John, however, the flat was nothing more than an accumulation of dust and painful reminders of his previous life.

Sherlock stood in the doorway, allowing his eyes to acclimate to the darkness that was covering the flat before him. Slowly, black-and-white detail seeped into focus, revealing a plethora of items loaded with sensitive memories.

Who was Sherlock now? Truly, he didn’t know. He knew himself only in relation to others, and the realization of it was creeping up on him more quickly than he fancied. So much of him was an act for those who surrounded him- even if they weren’t there. For many years now, Sherlock had simply known himself in relation to John: what John would like, what he wouldn’t, what would make him laugh, what would make him scowl. Depending on each assumed reaction, he attempted to act accordingly. Sometimes he got it wrong, but the center of his universe had always assisted in guiding his choices.

At all times, he would act to keep John safe. Even if it caused loss, suffering, or pain for Sherlock. The most obvious example of this was deciding to fake his death despite knowing it would hurt John. Sherlock had suffered much more than John in a valiant effort to keep him safe.

He was frozen in place for too long. The absence of a clock to abandon hints of the passage of time was disillusioning. The light cascading in from the moon outside danced as he stood, the tell-tale signs of clouds shifting outside. His joints screamed at him for relief, his stomach too-empty from a hunger that now seemed to be a part of him. His mind was strangely quiet, even as he attempted to make deductions regarding the apartment around him.

_John. My John. Engaged._

Without his sun tethering him into an orbit, he was spiraling.

His tears were screaming to come out, but he refused them. He was an idiot- a proper fool- to not have considered this. Of _course_ John would have moved on. Then again, it wasn’t that Sherlock had never considered the possibility. It was that Sherlock had never thought John would move on so wholly. Never did the thought occur to him that he would move on with another whom would be so important, John would be unwilling to leave them when Sherlock returned.

Somewhere, deep within himself, he thought John loved him. Sherlock now hated this part of himself for raising his hopes so thoroughly.

When the first rays of morning snuck through the thin curtains of the flat, Sherlock’s joints were awoken. Perhaps, even if John could not be the source of his orbit, he could fake it. His legs carried him numbly over the hardwood, the slapping sound of his feet like an echo of whips in his mind.

The flat was in a right state; nearly nothing changed in the time since he’d been gone. The only notable change was the removal of any semblance of food from the place (the work of Mrs. Hudson going by the trace of hair sealed between the refrigerator door). However, the blankets remained folded in the same manner, the furniture was unmoved, and the telly was positioned in the same place. The same books were scattered, battered, and tossed over the same fixtures. The place was a disaster.

John hadn’t even come back to clean the place up. This deduction caused a wrench in his already hurting heart. Oh how quickly John had abandoned their life together.

Upon entering his own bedroom, impossibly stale air entered his lungs. There was a thick layer of dust along the window sill, the higher bookshelves, and headboard. Unlike the living room and kitchen, however, this room bore a couple unmistakable signs of tampering.

The closet, the foot of the bed, various patterns on the floor, and one floorboard on the right side of his bed saw thinner dust accumulation compared to the rest of the flat.

Several theories formed in his mind: John, furiously going through his closet for signs that Sherlock faked the whole ordeal while he was still in the denial stage of grief. Mrs. Hudson coming in to remove his sheets but being unable to do so because of her own grief. Lestrade being tasked with gathering his things but finding it a more difficult task than he imagined.

None of these stories fabricating in his mind satisfied the evidence, however. His theories would only explain a couple months’ difference in accumulation. It was clear that someone had been in this room tampering with those areas for up to a year- perhaps longer- after Sherlock was believed to be dead.

The bed, the closet, nor the walking patterns interested Sherlock quite as much as the floorboard, however. He knew this floorboard- had utilized this floorboard. This particular floorboard lifted to reveal a convenient pocket of space that could be used to store items one might want to hide.

In fact, he had pried this board up himself mere days after entering into domestic bliss with John Watson.

But why was the dust pattern here so thin? Who had been here to check this floorboard and what had they been looking for?

His legs carried him swiftly to the corner, his legs giving out from exhaustion as he attempted to swat over the board. Fingers clumsy in anticipation, he fumbled at the wooden edges to pry it up and inspect what further deductions could be made. When his finger slid under, his heart skipped a beat. Sherlock was more than certain that the thing used to require less strength to lift. Then again, perhaps he simply possessed less strength now.

His eyes were wide in surprise, his lids falling in several heavy blinks as he took in the sight of a diminutive box sitting within the now-exposed small expanse of wood. The box, pastel purple and sealed with a crude makeshift bow sat innocently before him.

So nobody had removed or searched for anything. Rather, someone had been tampering with the board in order to place this box there. But who? Who would have spotted the floorboard, known it could hold a package? Who would _want_ to hide the item?

Keeping his right hand on the floorboard to hold it up, Sherlock maneuvered his arm uncomfortably to allow his left hand to wrap around the box to remove it. After pulling it out, all other thoughts escaped him and he allowed the floorboard to fall with a resounding crash that caused his muscles to tighten. He didn’t particularly care for that sort of noise anymore.

It was a set-up box approximately 21 centimeters width and height with a depth of 10 centimeters. The lid was snug. Clearly, this box was purchased for this specific purpose and only used when its owner put in its contents. This box was not well-worn nor opened frequently to access its insides. The bow, a dark purple to contrast the lilac of the box itself, bore marks of attempted elegance, but the bow was uneven with frayed edges where the maker must have used their teeth or dull scissors to cut the ends. Evidently, it was important to present to box in a pleasing fashion but not critical enough to warrant taking extra time or resources to make it perfect.

He lifted his thumb and middle finger to one end of the ribbon, pulling it with grace to allow the mass of string to tumble off and float gently to the floor. He removed the lid with shaking hands- though he didn’t know why- and gazed inside.

Letters.

Several letters- nine to be exact- set in sealed envelopes, all tied together with a rubber band. The top envelope, obscuring the writing on the others, was addressed in a too-familiar script.

_To Whoever May Find This_

Sherlock’s mouth was full of cotton, his heart racing as he stared at the handwriting and stack of envelopes. What was going on?

Sherlock ripped the first envelope out from the rubberband that bound them all together and temporarily dropped the rest, not thinking to glance at the others said until he could absorb the words of the envelope in his hands.

Careful to mind the delicate seal, he slid his finger under the lip of the envelope and revealed its content. Shaking in anticipation, he pulled out the solitary paper within and began to read:

_Dear whoever is reading this,_

_Bloody hell this is stupid. Pretty much, if you’re reading this, don’t. Okay? Not that anybody would find this. The only man who could is Sherlock Holmes and he damn well isn’t coming back. See, he used to hide things here, certain I wouldn’t find it. He thought I was a bloody idiot._

_Anyway, he was my friend. He died. I never thought I’d get through it... the misery from all the things I never got to tell him. I used to write about our adventures together on my blog, but then he was gone and… I was lost. I eventually took up writing my new adventures_ _to_ _him in place of writing_ _about_ _my adventures with him. It helped. _

_Now I’m ready to put it behind me, but I can’t bring myself to destroy these- these last words to him. They’re the last words I never had a chance to say. They chronicle my journey to overcoming the greatest grief I’ve ever known._

_I’ve hidden them here where no one will find them because they deserve to exist in a place where Sherlock has existed. It is like speaking the words to him, this crude impersonation of communication: leaving written words in a room where he once resided._

_Anyway. If you’re not me and you’re not Sherlock, bugger off. This doesn’t concern you._

_Best,_

_Dr. John Watson_

Sherlock’s breath came out in uneven measurements. His vision was blurring on the edges, his hands tremoring until he strained from the effort of reading the shaking words. His eyes shot immediately to the pile of letters he tossed aside so nonchalantly a short minute ago. The letter on top was addressed “ _Sherlock Holmes_.”

Heart in his throat, he ripped the rubber band off so ferociously, the snap of it stung his fingers. With delicate care he hadn’t shown the rubber band, he flipped through the stack of envelopes and saw with dizzying comprehension that each one- every single one- was a letter to him. All written in John’s handwriting.

The letters of each “ _Sherlock Holmes_ ” varied in slight ways despite their author being the same. Some were clear and crisp while others were scribbled and messy. Others were small and careful, while still others were large and slanted. This indicated to Sherlock that each letter had been put into these envelopes and addressed at different times. Presumably, shortly after each letter was finished. However, the box was new, the rubberband taut from its lack of other uses. It meant the letters were compiled, tied together, and placed into the box after they had all already been written and sealed.

The letters were out of order, then. John would not have taken the care to keep track of which letter was written when. After all, the letters were a therapy and nothing more. There would have been no reason to.

Sherlock could only use logic up to a point, he thought, to find any sort of order in the letters based on their exterior. His first letter surely would have been addressed more carefully. John always paid extra attention and care to projects that were new to him. Additionally, the writing would be controlled in an effort to maintain the integrity of the project. However, the first letter would likely have been more challenging a task compared to the others. After all, it was the first step of his own therapy. The task would have been trying on John. Therefore, the writing would have to be wobbly, but still with an air of effort.

He riffled through the letters until he found an envelope matching the description: unbalanced writing with a great deal of effort evidently put into keeping it clear and controlled.

Frozen where he sat, his body betrayed him in far too many ways. His palms felt too sweaty, his neck impossibly tight, his chest allowing neither his lungs nor heart to behave properly. He wanted to read it- God, he wanted to read it. Yet he was terrified of what may lay within the pages. This envelope, thicker than the first, held a couple pages of insight. These were John’s inner thoughts on Sherlock; words he thought he’d never be able to say to him.

He took a steadying breath, closed his eyes, and imagined the worst case scenario. In his mind, the genuine worst case scenario would be refusing to read the pages in his hand. With trembling fingers, he opened the letter and read:

_Dear Sherlock,_

_Stop this. Just stop it, okay? Stop being dead, alright? The world needs Sherlock Holmes, the brilliant detective who is hilariously poor at understanding human emotion. But I don’t need Sherlock Holmes, the brilliant detective. I need Sherlock, my friend. God help me, I am tired of pretending I don’t need you._

_I absolutely cannot tolerate it anymore, this pretending I’m even half-way okay. I’m not, Sherlock. I’m not okay. I can’t function without you, can’t even begin to see a life without you._

_Sherlock, you saved my life. You see everything and still, you could never see how you saved me. I am ashamed I never told you the brevity of my gratitude._

_I spent so much time being angry at you when you were still here. God, I was a fucking idiot. I used to get so mad at you for simply being the person you are. I never understood there would be a time when I would regret that deeply._

_Sherlock. I am begging you to come back. I can’t continue living like this. I think of you every second of every day. I cannot get you out of my head. The ghost of you haunts my every living moment. There were so many things I wanted to say to you and I never did._

_Ella wants me to say them to her, but I cannot do that. See, if I can’t say them to you, then I don’t want to say them to anybody._

_I’ve repressed so much of who I am for so long. Sometimes I wonder if you’d deduced the parts of me that I hid. I like to pretend that if you did, you would have told me to stop pining after you. Another part of me liked to pretend that if you did, you would have acted on it._

_But I always admired you in ways you never admired me._

_Today I had a crisis because I could not recall_ _exactly _ _the colour of your eyes. A right state I was in, too. I tore through the bloody apartment looking for a picture of you only to find that there isn’t one. I tried to recover the apartment because I could not stand knowing I disrupted proof of your existence. I looked through my phone to discover I have no bloody pictures of your eyes. I had no fucking reference to consult when I wanted to recall you._

_Then a whole tumble of other realization crushed me, Sherlock. I won’t ever smell you again, I won’t see your face light up when you’re working on a case, I won’t graze your hand when you hand me a bit of evidence, I won’t hear your fucking laughter when I manage to put a smile on those beautiful lips that I won’t see again._

_I thought I had perhaps come to terms with the idea that my life may eventually go one without you. But today I discovered all the small things that I will never encounter again. Those things that make you distinctly_ _you _ _and I will live forever without. Those things, so small, that will fade into distant memory the longer I don’t know you._

 _Sherlock, you have no idea what you’ve done to me. Why did you do it? Having to watch you fall to your death was worse than anything else you could have done to me. Worse than years in Afghanistan, even. You’d told me to “keep my eyes on you” but I cannot understand why. You must not have known how I felt, after all. How could you ask someone to watch you fall to your death if you knew they_ _l ~~o~~  _ _cared for you?_

_Look at me. I’m fucking useless. Even now, I can’t admit it. Even on this paper, even now with nobody to see what I’m writing. Is it possible that I am not capable of admitting it?_

_But you have done things that I cannot even possibly begin to understand. Now, I am asking you to do it one more time: stop being dead. Come back. Please. Don’t leave me here alone. I cannot explain to you how badly I need you._

_I will spend forever hoping for your return._

_Best,_

_Dr. John Watson_

_(P.S. I have since recalled the colour of your eyes. Gorgeous and startling, they haunt me.)_

The paper bore patterns where ink was subtly warped from the liquid of tears. Though there were certainly a fair amount when Sherlock began the letter, there were a few extra fresh ones by the time he finished. Try as he might, the tears flowed from his eyes liberally. He hated the tarnished effect they had on the letter, though they fell outside of his ability to prevent them.

The letter followed the logic of someone using only their train of thought to propel their writing. It was like reading someone’s mind, this letter. A distinct peek into the exact workings of John’s mind.

John: always reserved and withholding. This letter shed a sharp light on his true feelings and, much to his surprise, it placed an inexplicably dreadful weight in his heart.

The rest of the letters were more or less a guessing game. The outward writing would only provide hints up to a point. Taking a guess, Sherlock selected another letter that seemed to be more confidently written than the first and was still clearly written with a great deal of caution.

_Dear Sherlock,_

_He reminds me of you. You know, in those young, early days. He is wildly eccentric and entirely stuck in his ways, damn clever and more than a little posh. He reminds me of you and yet how can he remind me of you when you were so uniquely one of a kind?_

_See, he reminds me of you in the ways I want him to. I search for pieces of you in everyone I meet in a desperate attempt to have you back in my life. If there are pieces of you in those who I surround myself with, then you’re not truly gone. To be surrounded by people that hold no resemblance to the traits I waste my days away missing? That would be my worst nightmare._

_It’s all hushed up, of course. The date, I mean.. Haven’t told anybody yet- except, of course, for you._

_It was always going to be you. It was supposed to be you. I never told you and I regret it more than you will ever know. I’ve convinced myself that going out with him will honor your memory. You know, being true to myself and all that._

_But it’s hard. God, Sherlock, it’s hard. It’s hard to be with him and not see you. Seeing him and imagining you is pain beyond pain. I wish so severely that it could be you sitting across from me and laughing at my ridiculous jokes._

_The worst part?_

_He’s got your eyes, Sherlock._

_It was a stab in my heart when I realized. I’m thick, I know it. But it must be what drew me to him in the first place. When I see him- though he cannot hold a candle to you- I see the ghost of those piercing eyes._

_I miss you._

_I ask it every time, and I won’t stop now… please stop it, Sherlock._

_You were supposed to be the first, Sherlock. Not this man who is nothing but a clumsy ghost of you. He is the closest I will get, but I am begging you: come back. Stop being dead._

_Come back and I will admit it all. I will admit what I still cannot on paper. I will admit what I only think to myself in the deepest crevices of my mind._

_Stop this charade and come back and I will put it all on the line. I will never again talk myself out of the pain of emotional vulnerability._

_Best always,_

_Dr. John Watson_

The duality of Sherlock’s will was tearing him in two. One part of him was screaming to consume the letters in quick succession, devouring the content like the ravenous man in love he was. The other part of him- the part screaming in agony- was demanding to walk away from the ink confessions held within those deceptively benign envelopes It caused him extraordinary pain to read what he had done to John. It was worse to know what Sherlock had missed.

Unfortunately, Sherlock was quite talented in the art of doing things and had never been skilled when it came to not doing things. His heart continuing its dangerous pace and his breath trembling in futile attempts to provide his body with enough oxygen, he reached into the pile of letters and extracted another one at random- a smaller one- and read it with the impetuous passion of a man drinking water after being parched for many days.

_Dear Sherlock,_

_I don’t want to love again. If I had known that loving you was going to be the last true love I ever held, I would have ripped myself down the middle in my attempt to save you._

_He touches me and it’s an empty sensation. There is no passion in this world for me now. His name is poison on my lips, his kisses too harsh and not at all what yours would have been. I could know someone for the rest of my life and they would merely be some stranger sent to replace you._

_If it’s not you, I just don’t want it._

_Best always,_

_Dr. John Watson_

Sherlock’s tears were falling unabashedly now. Without care or precaution, the tears fell heavily down his cheeks, the waves of water tracing down his face in peculiar designs. Some were racing to the floor to fall in puddles that were water paintings of his pain. Others fell down his cheek so slowly, they were nearly immobile- each slight motion down his face an alarm to notify him of his sorrow as it crept along the height of his cheekbone and then dipped into the valley of his cheeks.

“ _If I had known that loving you was going to be the last love I ever held…”_

The words were an echo in his head, each repeated syllable a new wave of unimaginable pain.

It wasn’t that Sherlock was wrong about John’s feelings- it was that he waited too long. He was gone too long, the expanse of time allowing John to move on.

This short letter was proof that one of the other letters bore the first time John confessed his love. He knew John and knew beyond doubt that he wouldn’t have confessed such a thing for the first time in a manner so cavalier. No. John- his John- would have confessed it in a letter dedicated solely to the subject.

Now that he knew what he was looking for, he hand-selected a letter with handwriting so untidy and jagged, it could only be the writing of a man who had just finished pouring his heart out. He couldn’t be bothered to attempt tidiness after he wrote this letter.

Yet Sherlock’s hands held it for some time without moving to open it. If this contained a confession of love, he was not sure if he was ready to see it. For so long, Sherlock had wondered and hoped for love from the glorious man he shared his life with. He never imagined he would learn of reciprocated love from a letter whose confession would be expired by the time it was found.

For he knew beyond doubt that any love held by John- any love confessed in this letter Sherlock was holding in his frail hands- was long departed. The confession would crush Sherlock, he knew it would.

Body weak from both physical and emotional exhaustion, he swept up every last letter and found his way clumsily to his bed. Ignoring the dust that coated the fabric, he crawled under the sheets. All around him was a cloud of dirt that evaporated within second, the particles that had spent years settling themselves into the sheets flying away to find a new home.

He placed the rest of the letters several feet from where he had settled himself on the mattress. Gingerly, he took the letter he was convinced would hold precious confessions from the rest and stared at its unassuming envelope. Taking several deep breaths, his hands worked slowly to peel open the envelope and extract several pages of paper.

Sherlock closed his eyes, the sensation burning from tears that had thankfully subsided for the time being. He knew they were likely to return, and he vowed to keep this paper, this letter, pristine.

He opened his eyes and, holding the paper at a safe distance from his tear radius, began to read:

_Dear Sherlock,_

_It’s been six months, you know. Each day is easier in the smallest ways: in the tears that aren’t soaking my pillows before I am even awake each morning. Some surprising things can distract me for several minutes at a time before the thought of you overwhelms me again. The ghost of you occasionally leaves when I command it to._

_My emotional endurance is thankful for these minuscule eases of pain. They make each day easier than the slow death I was living before. But still, you haunt me, Sherlock._

_I see you in my dreams, alive and ecstatic in your pleasure to see me. I see you in my waking hours, too. You whisper to me to hold on hope for your return. You scowl at others who catch my eye. You refuse to leave because you claim doing so will aid my attempt to move on._

_I know this isn’t you, and I know this is a manifestation of my mind refusing to move on._

_Why?_

_Why am I suffering like this?_

_I know why._

_You knew why, too. I’m certain of it._

_The answer is simple, a fundamental building block of life. Yet my pride keeps me reserved to silence._

_I’m writing this letter to tell you something- a silent something._

_This letter is for myself and myself alone, Sherlock. For I fear the thoughts I hold inside are keeping me from moving on. It is possible that by refusing to let the words out, I allow them to fester, garnering power as they do so._

_They control me, these words. They haunt me just as you do. The words I thought constantly but never wanted to admit- until you were gone._

_When you were taken from me, I hated myself for withholding my overwhelming feelings. Constantly-_ _Constantly_ _, Sherlock- I kept my mouth shut for fear of my emotions. Any emotion I feel terrifies me unless it is a form of rage or sorrow. Those two emotions destroy me, consume my existence._

_Because happiness? Joy? Longing? They are emotions designed to be temporary. Those are emotions that can last only a short time and are fragile in their construction. Any happiness I could have found in you would have been easy to break, and so much more painful when it did._

_No. It was easier to be bitter, angry, and hostile._

_That joy, though… the emotions I was terrified to share with you because of potential pain… they are dwarfed in the reality of pain I suffer every day without you. Admitting how I felt and facing rejection would have been painful, but it cannot hold a candle to how much it hurts knowing I will never tell you how I feel._

_The pain of it is aiding my inability to progress through life._

_So now, on this paper, I have resigned myself to confessions. I hope the weight of these confessions will resound through the universe and find you in your peaceful new home. I hope you will know, as I always have, the depth of my emotions. I hope these confessions find you and their delivery will relieve us of words never said._

_Sherlock Holmes, my friend, my companion, my savior: I love you._

_I loved you from the start. In every way, Sherlock, I loved you. With every passing day, I loved and continue to love you more and more. You were my sun, my own personal guide toward happiness. Even when I resisted the strength of my feelings, I fell harder every passing day._

_To me, you were the Sun and I was a planet revolving around you. I relied on your strength and warmth to sustain my very existence._

_I loved you, I love you, and I will always love you._

_No single novel, movie, story, nor song on Earth could have prepared me for the love I shared for you, my Sherlock. You were all that mattered, the absolute love of my life._

_Look what has become of my love in your absence: insanity disguised as a shock from the loss of a friend. My heart has been shattered by the loss of you and the sorrow is made infinitely worse by all the things I never said._

_The confession feels like a million kilograms of weight off of me._

_I love you._

_I curse myself for being too ashamed to admit it to even myself._

_My name is John Watson and I am bisexual. I am attracted to men. The love of my life was a man- a brilliant, gorgeous, caring man. That man is dead now and I do not know how to move past it because my love for him was so profound that his loss has completely fragmented me._

_My inability to admit any of that- even the first sentence- outside this page is the source of my pain. I am the source of my own undoing._

_I am sorry, Sherlock, that I ever resorted to frustrated anger toward you. Bloody hell, of _ _course_ _there were times you infuriated me. It was a frequent occurrence, truly. But I am sorry that I allowed the anger to throw a dark shadow over the love I held in my heart._

_I love you._

_I love you._

_I love you._

_Please come back._

_Love,_

_John_

Long-dried tears left their mark along the ink, warping letters where they had fallen. Not mixed with Sherlock’s this time, whose tears were a stubborn puddle along his sleeve that he continued to use to clean the secretions from his eyes. They flowed so heavily that the writing became more and more difficult to read as Sherlock progressed through the pages.

A right and proper love letter to Sherlock from John.

Save for the hand that was holding the note unsteady, tears touched nearly every portion of his upper body. With no desire to ruin the letter and no way to safely put it back in its cage, he allowed the letter’s pages to fall open-faced on the bed beside him.

His body curled in on itself, the horrible truth crashing over him like waves of pure, excruciating pain. Falling over onto the bed without intention, his body shook with sobs that resulted in equal shakes from the long-unused bed. His arms wrapped around his knees, certain he would break apart without motion.

On his side, sinking deeper into the bed, his eyes produced a volume of tears unparalleled to any that he had ever produced before. The sorrow of loss wracked through him viciously without release, his heart ripping apart in what must have been a physical manner. His heart was absolutely breaking physically, for no emotional pain could possibly be wreaking this havoc on his body.

Yet he knew it was an emotional pain he was experiencing. An emotional pain so severe, his body was reacting to it in an effort to release a bit of the tension building up within his mind. His heart was pumping quickly, feeling too heavy but breaking apart more and more with every beat. His limbs were no longer his own; rather, they were limp, surreal attachments that served no purpose other than to weigh him down enough for any movement to be impossible.

He had thought- had truly believed- that his suffering had been greater than John’s. Through his travels, his torture, and his painstaking exploits, he was certain that he had received the short end of the stick. He absolutely convinced himself that John, safe and living a normal life, would have been spared any significant suffering.

He knew better now.

For Sherlock had endured physical wounds that healed, but the thought of a safe and healthy John had sustained him. That thought- that _one_ thought- prevented him from ever falling into an inescapable torture of the mind.

Now he knew John had loved him nearly as passionately as Sherlock had always loved him. Sherlock imagined being safe in London but coping with the permanent loss of John. He knew beyond doubt that suffering the loss of the love of his life would be immeasurably worse than any wound afflicted from undercover work.

If John was gone, he would have no reason to go on. The thought alone sent a more violent sob through his body. His joints ached from the unrelenting nature of his emotional response.

These letters held the cause of John’s anger toward Sherlock. These letters were the missing link that Sherlock didn’t have before announcing his return. These letters- raw and genuine- explained why John was furious at Sherlock’s cavalier attitude. They also explained why John was unlikely to ever forgive Sherlock.

All that time he spent holding onto the hope that Sherlock would return was replaced eventually by acceptance that he had to move on. He experimented with dating men, even tried to replace Sherlock with the act. He uncovered portions of himself he didn’t know existed and, in doing so, came to terms with those hidden parts. He eventually found Mary and she helped him accept and adapt to a life without Sherlock.  He poured every drop of strength he possessed into forming a life after Sherlock.

Then- finally-, tonight, Sherlock answered his prayers: he wasn’t dead. He came back.

But John had scrambled for so long, worked so hard, and burned himself in the effort to get past his death. It was too late now. Sherlock’s return tonight was not an answer to John’s wishes; it was a spit in the face to the immense effort he had gone through to move past the ordeal.

His return was a painful surprise akin to finding a knife protruding from one’s gut.

Sherlock was the greatest fool on this planet. His regret swelled within him for hours as he lay there. The crushing sorrow wracked through his body for hours, his pillow beneath him becoming soaked to its core from his tears. Even when his body refused to produce further tears, his body refused to halt the physical routine of sobbing. He continued to weep, his muscles exhausted from the motion of it.

The rest of the letters remained at the foot of the bed. Sherlock didn’t want to read them- not now and not ever. What could they possibly say that would make any of this better? No, they could only bring worse guilt and regret. He was certain that if he felt any worse, his body would surely crumble in on itself.

No, the rest of the letters would never see the light of day. Sherlock’s regret ran bone-deep already. All he needed to know was already learned: John had loved him, John had believed him dead and begged frequently for that not to be true, John had suffered, and John would never forgive him for these digressions.

John suffered the pain of lost love and now Sherlock, too, understood how significant that agony was.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sort of imagined-prequel to my other work titled "One Second and a Million Miles." The two don't directly correlate, but I think the existence of these letters makes sense as a segue to their situation in that story. I recommend giving it a read if you enjoyed this one.
> 
> I cried like mad when I wrote this one. I both hope and don't hope that it has the same impact on my readers.
> 
> This work was loosely inspired by the song "The Color of Your Eyes" from the musical "Daddy Long Legs."


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